Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda
by EvanescentBeauty
Summary: Story epilogue. George talks to Slim after the death of Lennie.


**A/N:** Okay, so I read this book for AP English, first semester, and I loved it. I loved the book, and the movie I LOVVVED. Now that I've switched into regular English second semester, it turns out that I have to read it again because _Of Mice and Men _is second semester material for regular English. So, I figured I'd write a bit of fanfiction for it.

Also, for those of you who have the seen the movie, is it just me, or is Gary Sinise in a lot of movies with mentally retarded people? (He was in Forrest Gump, too.) My dad says it's because he wants to seem smarter. xD

* * *

The sun had now completely set over the Galiban mountains, and now the sky on the far west was a deep indigo, sparkling with stars. The sky got progressively pinker as you looked more east, until it peaked at the mountain's points and slipped towards the sun, gathering speed. The air was still warm from the day, though -- it never got truly cold there. A small hill dipped down into a bank where a green pool sat, motionless, unmoving. A small dirt path led up the hill, where two men were trekking up it, heading for the town.

George climbed the small hill without much difficulty. It was like adrenaline was pumping his legs remorselessly onward, and yet a certain numb darkness had taken over his muscles and mind like a heavy blanket in the heat of summer. And yet, the blanket was made of ice that stung like lemonade on a paper cut.

Slim walked steadily next to him, keeping the pace, and -- to George's relief -- the silence. Millions of thoughts were streaming through George's mind. They were coming in so fast that he could barely pause to stop and contemplate one for more than one or two seconds. It had all happened so fast. One minute he was there behind the barn playing horseshoes and the next, Lennie was sitting there slumped over in the sand, blood seeping out of the bullet hole in the back of his head. The bullet hole that _he, _George,had given him. He had shot Lennie -- his best friend.

It was the strangest feeling. If he had woken up this morning knowing that he would kill Lennie, would he have done anything differently? _Well_, he thought sadly. _First I woulda stopped the dumb bastard from killin' Curley's wife, for one_. George figured that he should have stayed with Lennie -- kept him away from that tart. _Well, if we's goin' back that far_, thought George, _I probably never woulda got this job anyways. _

As they reached the top of the bank and continued the walk down the cracked dirt pathway, George rubbed his hand over his eyes. Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

_"I don' like this place, George. This ain't no good place. I wanna get outa here."_

George closed his eyes momentarily, blinking away Lennie's haunting, ringing words._ By God, if there was one time I'da listened to the crazy bastard it woulda been then, _George thought angrily. He felt like tearing out his skin in frustration.

"George."

George looked over at Slim. The poor guy looked about as grim as George felt.

"George, ya hadda."

"I know it, Slim," said George softly. "But I din' get mad at 'im. I _wasn't _mad at 'im, by God. I din' done shoot 'im for meanness."

"No," said Slim patiently. "No, I don' 'spect ya did."

"There was no other way," said George, a hint of imploring desperation for affirmation of his choice. But what would it matter anyway? Even if there had been some other way, would George want to know what it was? _Hell no,_ thought George firmly. _Besides, it's done with anyways. _

"George, Curley's mad as a hatter. Even if he did get to Lennie . . . well, let's just leave it that he likes to play with his food before he eats it."

"See, and I knew that," said George. "But I can't help but think."

"'Bout what?"

"I mean -- I know it's stupid -- but . . . " he paused and rubbed the back of his neck. "What if Lennie was me?"

Slim didn't laugh, and George had never been so glad of it.

"How d'ya mean?"

"What if I was the stupid one droolin' all over the place and whinin' 'bout them damn rabbits all day? What if Lennie was some tall handsome fella with the money and the brains an' all?"

George took a pause, stewing in his own thoughts.

"Would he'a shot me?"

Slim paused, thinking. George didn't know what to make of the silence.

"I know it's stupid," said George quickly. "I mean . . . just supposin' . . . "

"I don' know, George," said Slim, who seemed to have ignored George's last sentence. "I think what made Lennie so nice an' innocent was his stupidity."

"Uh huh," said George, not really knowing where Slim was going.

"But you was like brothers, George, and he trusted you like you was his guardian angel. I never seen no fella trust in anotha so surely before."

"Naw, that ain't trust," said George miserably. "That was blind obedience. Kinda like a dog."

They had finally come up to the bar, and George was the first to enter. Maybe some whiskey would wash away the memory of Lennie's face; the shouts of rabbits -- always, always them damn rabbits -- and all those stupid dreams of stoves and alfalfa patches and long rainy days drinking homemade ground coffee. Slim sat down next to him and pushed a drink into George's quivering hand.

"I'm tellin' ya, George," said Slim firmly. "You was his friend and he'da done what was right for you. But he always knew you was right."

"But I ain't always right, goddammit!" snapped George. "I ain't always gonna be there to save his big behind from jack asses like Curley!"

He stopped, realizing his misuse of the present tense.

"And I . . ." he started softly. " . . . I couldn't. I didn't."

"George, you did the right thing," said Slim calmly. "Now I ain't sayin' it was a good thing the poor guy hadda go, but you did it right, George. It was a mercy kill."

"Some mercy kill," growled George, kicking the chair angrily and downing his glass in one gulp. "I done shot him in the back of his head after I got 'im ramblin' 'bout those goddamn rabbits! Just like Candy and his damn dog!"

"At least you had the guts to shoot your own dog," said Slim in a low voice, with a touch of anger behind it. George sighed and sat down again.

"It'd made no difference," he said quietly, staring at the taps on the wall in front of him.

"It made all the difference! Hadn't ya been listenin'? Curley woulda scared the livin' Christ outta the poor guy before he shot 'im!"

George took a sip out of his glass, which had somehow been filled again. Or maybe it was a new glass. What was wrong the other glass? Why couldn't he keep his old glass? Was it dirty? Useless?

"But I still shot 'im, Slim. _I _shot'm."

"He didn't know that. You know how those back-of-the-head things go, George. Lennie died soon as the bullet hit his skull."

"Did he?" said George, looking grimly at Slim. Slim narrowed his eyes confusedly. George sighed.

"We coulda run," he said. "Run like we done before."

"No, George," said Slim sadly. "There was nowhere _to _run."

"Like hell there wasn't," snapped George. "There was _always _a place to run."

"Curley would have chased ya to hell 'n' back before he let you off," said Slim.

George was too tired to argue the point anymore, so he drank another long swig of whiskey and felt its burn all the way down his throat and in his stomach. He licked his bottom lip slowly and then blinked.

"Hey, Slim?" he said.

"Yeah?"

"D'ya think there's a heaven?"

"Christ, George," sighed Slim, more in tired sadness than in irritation. "We gonna get into that now?"

"I always wondered," said George, fingering the top of his glass. "Always said it was a loada crap."

Slim stayed silent for a moment and drank deeply from his glass.

"Well, I ain't one for philosophy, here, George," he started.

"I ain't no scholar, neither, Slim. I's just wonderin'."

"Hell, I know that. But . . . . I always thought it was crap too."

George didn't move. He didn't look at Slim, he didn't drink -- nothing. There was a moment when you could hear the flies buzzing a mile away.

"I'm sorry if that ain't the answer you was lookin' for, George."

George sighed and looked down at the table before drinking the last of his beer and setting the glass on the table.

"It's gettin' late, Slim. I'm thinkin'a headin' back."

Slim nodded knowingly. "Alright, then, George."

George put his hat on and gave Slim a firm squeeze of silent thanks on the shoulder before turning and walking out the door. Slim followed George with his eyes all the way until he was swallowed up by the darkness outside and all Slim could hear was the chirping of the crickets outside and the far-away bark of a dog. He looked back at the wall in front of him.

"Crazy bastard," he muttered, before taking another drink.

* * *

**A/N:**

I don't know . . . it was fun to write -- worth a shot, anyways. Everytime I read or write this kind of stuff I leave talking like a hick. Lol. I take all the g's off my verbs. Lol. (talkin', walkin', drinkin'. . . )


End file.
